popped up. Bird names, Milo noticed. Straight out of The Ipcress File. Michael Caine, 1965.
Einner began to go through his case.
What followed was hard to keep track of. He showed Milo surveillance photographs, copies of documents, audio files, and video clips taken over the previous two months, the result of a sustained surveillance effort run by the proud Tourist sitting next to him. Some reports placed Angela at Chinese embassy parties, but even Einner admitted that that in itself wasn't damning. He even noted that Angela was using sleeping pills most nights, as if that were a sign of a guilty conscience. Then he got to the important part.
'See this man?' he said, pointing at a red-bearded thirty-something in a fitted suit. He was standing at a street crossing by the Arc de Triomphe, just behind Angela, both waiting for the light to change. Milo 's cheeks warmed-he knew this man. Einner said, 'That was May 9. Here.' He tapped the trackpad, and the same man was sitting behind the wheel of a taxi, no longer in a suit, while Angela was in the back. 'That's May 14. This is the sixteenth.' A tap, and there they both were again, in the bistro where Milo had entrapped her, sitting at separate, but nearby, tables. In this shot, however, she wasn't alone at her table. Sitting across from her was a young, earnest-looking black man, hands open, speaking insistent words at her. 'June 20,' Einner said, and showed Milo another street-crossing shot, again with the red-bearded man. 'All we have on this man is-'
'Who's the kid?'
'What?' Einner said, annoyed at the interruption.
'Go back,' Milo said, and when Einner had returned to the bistro shot he touched the screen. 'This guy.'
'Rahman Something…' He squeezed his eyes shut. 'Garang. That's it. Rahman Garang. Suspected terrorist.'
'Oh?'
'She reported it,' Einner told him. 'She was trying to get information from him.”
“In a public place?'
'His idea, apparently. Not very professional, but she didn't argue.'
'Did she get anything?'
Einner shook his head. 'We think he fucked off back to the Sudan.'
' Sudan,' Milo breathed, trying to sound uninterested. 'And before you ask,' Einner said, 'no-we don't think she's helping out terrorists. She's not subhuman.”
“I'm glad you know that.'
Einner went back to the last photo, of Angela crossing the street with the red-bearded man. 'Anyway, this man here-”
“Herbert Williams,' said Milo.
'Shit, Weaver! Would you stop interrupting?”
“That's who it is, isn't it?'
'Well, yes,' Einner muttered. 'That's the name he used to register with the Police Nationale. How the hell did you know?”
“What else do you have on him?'
Einner wanted an answer first, but he could see from Milo 's face that he wouldn't get one. 'Well, he gave the police a Third Arrondissement address. We checked it out-a homeless shelter. So far as they know, he's never even knocked on the door. He claims to be from Kansas City. We had the Feds check on it, and Herbert Williams's records go back to 1991, when he applied for a passport.'
'He had to use a social security number, right?'
'Classic scam. The number does belong to a Herbert Williams, a black male who died at the age of three in 1971.'
'We've got nothing else?'
'The guy's slippery. We put some people on him after two of the June meetings, but he got away each time. He's a real pro. But look at this.' Once again, he tapped the trackpad, and a countryside shot appeared. Milo 's first reaction was aesthetic-it was a beautiful shot. Wide-open space, big sky, and a small cottage off to the left. Then he noticed a car near the center. Einner's cursor became a magnifying glass, and he zoomed in. Grainy, but clear enough-two men stood beside the car, talking. One was Herbert Williams, a.k.a. Jan Klausner. The other was a fat Chinese man, Colonel Yi Lien.
'Where did you get this?'
'It's old Company material, from last year. Tom tracked it down when he learned about the colonel.'
Milo rubbed his lips; they were as dry as Einner's. He was starting to hate Tom Grainger's idea of security. 'You've been following her for two months. Why did you start?'
'The French station's been full of holes for years. Langley wanted to look into it, but outside the usual channels, and we decided to start with Angela Yates.'
'We?'
'Me and Tom.'
It was a basic part of his job that Milo wasn't privy to all the operations his office ran, and he tried to remember if there had been any clues that Angela was under investigation. The best he could come up with was when, a month before, he had asked to use Einner, who was a surveillance expert, to bug a meeting between the Sicilian Mafia and suspected Islamic militants in Rome. Grainger had only said that Einner was indisposed, and gave him Lacey instead. 'So,' he said, 'you think all this is enough to hang her?'
'Of course I don't, Weaver. That's why I'm sitting here with you, rather than arresting her and going home to my girlfriend.' Einner cleared his throat. 'Now you. Tell me how you know Mr. Williams.'
'Motorcycle,' said Bill, stiffening behind the wheel.
They leaned toward the window. The sun was mostly gone, and they could just make out the silhouette of a leather-clad cyclist heading toward them. Einner shifted, removing a small Beretta from his shoulder holster-a Beretta, of course. 'Don't get all Gunsmoke, now,' said Milo.
The motorcycle cut between two cars and leapt to the sidewalk. A red box on the rear said pizza hut.
Once the deliveryman had roared past and up to Angela's door, Einner holstered the Beretta. 'Come on. Out with it.'
Milo told him about Klausner/Williams and the Tiger. The news seemed to throw Einner off his game. From the speakers, they heard the soft melody of Angela's doorbell. Einner's hands floundered in his lap. 'I-well, the Tiger.' Then: 'This changes everything, doesn't it?'
'I don't think so.'
Einner regained his focus. 'If Angela's connected to someone who controls-or controlled-the movements of the Tiger, then we're not just talking about her selling some secrets to the Chinese. She's being run by someone with serious contacts. She could be freelance now. Open market.'
'The plan's still the same,' said Milo. 'Identify her contact, then bring him in. Don't touch Angela until we have him.'
'Yes,' Einner admitted with a touch of distracted melancholy, 'you're right.'
Milo opened the back door and climbed down into the street. 'I'm getting some dinner. Call if you change position, okay?'
'Sure,' Einner said, then pulled the door shut. The Parisian air smelled of ham and warm pineapple.
15
Milo found a small, neon Turkish place on a side street near Place Leon Blum and ordered a gyro, eating it against a stand-up table. None of this felt right. Either Angela was innocent, which was what he wanted to believe, or she was guilty of selling secrets-but to the Chinese? It would be more in her line to sell them to a country she sympathized with. The Poles, for instance. She was a third-generation Polish American who had grown up hearing that hard language all around her. Her fluency was one reason the Company had originally brought her on. So was her idealism. Money, in itself, wasn't enough to make Angela betray anyone.
Einner, whether or not he was giving her a fair shake, had invested a lot of budget hours into his two-month surveillance operation, and backing off Angela would look like a waste of government resources-a risky move in the
